The Fireball

The town was quiet, the hour late
As we walked down St Mary’s Gate
Below the mediaeval tower
Reflected in the River Stour,
When overhead a stab of light
Arced blindingly across the night,
A crackling ball behind the spire,
Like cellophane thrown on a fire,
It’s tail spitting as it fell.
“What is that thing?” I asked Michelle
Who knew about astronomy.
“I haven’t got a clue,” said she.
And on the fireball spat and danced
Towards the rooftops over Franche
Where, fading, left its trailing scar
Across the night, against the stars.
And to this day we’re at a loss.
We never found out what it was.